


Making Headway

by mynameisnoneya



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Pirate, Arranged Marriage, Desire, F/M, Falling In Love, Freedom, Implied Sexual Content, Implied/Referenced Abuse, Joffrey Baratheon is His Own Warning, Mild Language, Mutual Pining, Passion, Pirates, Protective Sandor Clegane, Revenge
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-22
Updated: 2020-12-22
Packaged: 2021-03-10 20:48:20
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,626
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28083444
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mynameisnoneya/pseuds/mynameisnoneya
Summary: While sailing for Lannisport on her betrothed's ship, theWidow's Wail, Lady Sansa Stark has learned a thing or two about life at sea.  First, a handsome face and pretty words a good man does not make.  Second, sailors like to rise very early.  And third - and most importantly - never underestimate the quartermaster and his intentions.
Relationships: Sandor Clegane/Sansa Stark
Comments: 34
Kudos: 78





	Making Headway

**Author's Note:**

  * For [CorinaLannister](https://archiveofourown.org/users/CorinaLannister/gifts).



> This story was written for the Sansan Secret Santa event on Tumblr. The prompt was posted by @corinalannister (CorinaLannister here on AO3):
> 
> "marooned on a desert island."
> 
> From my conversations with corinalannister about her preferences, I created this fluffy little pirate ditty about Lady Sansa Stark and her constant battle with her licentious thoughts involving one very, _very_ tall quartermaster who decides that he's had enough of Captain Baratheon once and for all.
> 
> Please note that I made sure to tag any and all characters that appear in this work, whether they have a speaking role or not.
> 
> General disclaimer: GoT characters and quotes belong to GRMM - I own nor claim nothing!
> 
> If you enjoyed this work, please let me know by leaving comments and kudos!

Startled from sleep, Sansa sits bolt upright, the pounding on her cabin’s door rattling it on its hinges.

“Lady Sansa,” Gendry calls out to her.

“Yes?” she replies, squinting at the backside of the door as her eyes adjust.

“The cap’n would like ye up on deck at once.”

Her ginger brows furrow in confusion. “Right now?”

“This very minute, ma’am.”

Looking down at her nightshift, Sansa huffs in her displeasure. _There is no good reason why Joffrey would require my presence on deck at such an ungodly hour, unless he means to demean and degrade me for sport as usual._

“Surely, you exaggerate his urgency to speak with me,” she calls out in return, hoping to stall.

There is a brief pause before Gendry speaks again. “My apologizes, ma’am, but the cap’n was quite adamant ye come with us straight away.”

Sansa’s eyes narrow. Joffrey is probably quite pleased with himself at present, most likely pacing about on deck, barking orders whilst envisioning her traipsing about his ship while wearing nothing more than her unmentionables. What he wouldn’t give to see her in such a state. This is not the first time he has played such a game.

“Please tell Captain Baratheon for me that he will just have to wait. It is far too early for a lady to be risen in such a crude fashion, let alone be expected to be seen in public without being afforded the chance to - ”

“Bugger this,” another man grumbles from outside her cabin, and before she can blink, the door is kicked wide open, slamming into the wall. She shrieks at the sudden invasion of her privacy, and as Tormund stomps into her cabin, she yanks the covers up to her neck to maintain her modesty.

“Don’t worry yourself none, milady,” Tormund says with a laugh as he marches straight for her. “You don’t got nothin’ I ‘aven’t seen ‘fore now.”

Sansa’s mouth almost smacks the floorboards. “How _dare_ you burst into my quarters and speak to me like - ” Her protest turns into a yelp when Tormund grabs her by the arm, jerking her out of her berth and onto her feet in one fell swoop.

“Up an’ at ‘em, lass!” Tormund shouts, his laughter ramping up as she stumbles to find her footing on the cold wooden floor.

“Let go of me!” she demands, wriggling in vain to wrench her arm from his strong hand, strengthened from years at sea. “Let go of me this instant!”

The harder she struggles, the harder Tormund laughs. “Damn me straight to Davy Jones’s locker and back if she ain’t a wildcat in bed,” he announces as Gendry enters into the cabin.

Sansa freezes, her gasp echoing within the cabin. She glares at the rude, vulgar man, her pale face flushing a deep crimson from both anger and embarrassment.

“Shut yer gob, would ya?” Gendry sasses Tormund as he heads for the small table nestled in the corner. “She’s a lady, for fuck’s sake. Mind yer manners.” Snatching her robe off the table, Gendry twists on his boot heels and dips into a slight bow before tossing her robe to her. “Forgive the old salt, ma’am. We’ve not been ashore for some time now, if you understand me meanin’.”

Catching the robe mid-air with her free hand, Sansa scowls harshly at the young sailor. “I believe I understand your meaning quite clearly, sir.” Pivoting toward Tormund, she lifts her chin. “And you, _sir_ \- unhand me at once.” The ginger sailor snorts in amusement but readily obeys, and once freed, she wheels around, turning her back to slide into her dressing gown and slippers as quickly as possible.

“We’d best be gettin’ a move on,” Gendry says while she finishes covering herself.

Sansa whirls around in a flurry of linen and lace, folding her arms defiantly across her bosom. “No.”

Gendry is flummoxed. “Beg yer pardon?”

“I said, _no_.”

“The cap’n ain’t in no mood to be trifled with this mornin’,” he all but pleads.

“Oh, hang Joffrey and his moods!” Her unforeseen outburst causes the older seaman to snort at her boldness, the young sailor’s eyes to almost pop right out of his head. Irritated, Sansa sighs. She hadn’t meant to verbalize that particular thought, but there it is, out in the open, floating between the three of them like a cork bobbing in the water. “Whatever the captain’s reason to speak with me may be,” she continues, trying to regain some semblance of decorum, “he most certainly can wait until I have had enough time to dress properly.”

Gendry and Tormund exchange a peculiar look, one which she cannot read. Before she has time to ponder the matter further, her ears prick thanks to the muffled sounds of men shouting and scuffling on deck. Men cry out and objects crash, a thousand footsteps scrambling about all at once. Momentarily distracted, her attention wanes until a floorboard near her berth creaks.

Her eyes cut to the two men as they move toward her. With the shouts and screams up above still drifting into her cabin, her nerves are on edge. “What in the world is going on up there?” she asks, but Gendry and Tormund do not reply. They are drawing closer with every step, and she starts moving in reverse to increase the distance between them. “Why are you _really_ here?” she demands, yet once again, they ignore her. It isn’t long before she’s run out of room and her back is bumping into the cabin wall behind her. Her pulse thrums and her breath quickens when that same strange look bounces between them once again.

“Beggin’ yer pardon, ma’am,” Gendry says, “but the cap’n made it _very_ clear we weren’t to show up empty handed.”

Sansa’s eyes widen. “You wouldn’t _dare_.”

Tormund grins from ear to ear. “Wouldn’t we, though?” Before she can scream for help, he lunges, scooping her up and tossing her over his shoulder like a sack of potatoes. 

“This way if ye would, ma’am,” Gendry says as he follows behind her and Tormund, who laughs loudly while the young heiress kicks and pummels his back the whole way.

…ooo000ooo…

“Put me down at once!” Sansa shouts again to no avail. “You think this is funny, do you?” she asks Gendry and Tormund, both of whom are now chuckling at her. “Well, it won’t be so funny when Joffrey has the two of you keelhauled for this!” Vexed beyond belief, she opens her mouth to speak again, but the early morning sunrise smacks her right in the face, interrupting her train of thought. With an unceremonious thud, she is dropped to her feet and finally released.

With her whole body coiled in annoyance, she spins around to confront the impertinent sailors, but instead her mouth drops in disbelief. The entire crew of the _Widow’s Wail_ is lounging about the ship as if they had gone ashore on leave. The men have abandoned their uniforms, lazing about in their tunics and breeches. Several bottles of rum are being passed about, the men taking generous swigs while sniggering and elbowing one another as her humiliation unfolds.

Sansa is baffled. The sailors are behaving as if they haven’t a care in the world. Their conduct makes absolutely no sense considering her betrothed’s proclivity to inflict the lash. He has hanged men for much lesser offenses.

_And speaking of the captain, where on earth is he?_

“Sorry to disappoint your ladyship, but Captain Baratheon won’t be keelhauling anyone today,” the deep, raspy voice booms from behind.

Twirling toward the approaching heavy footsteps, she inhales sharply, fixating on the very, _very_ tall man whose piercing gray eyes and broad shoulders have haunted her rather unladylike dreams for months now. Sandor is all leather and muscle, his long, black hair loose and flowing to his shoulders instead of hanging in the queue he normally wears, and the hairstyle softens his features since the burned side of his face is partially hidden from view. With a three brace of pistols hanging from his brown leather baldric and a razor-sharp cutlass dangling from his hip, he cuts the figure of a pirate captain far more than the privateer’s quartermaster such that he is.

“Mr. Clegane!” She clears her throat, flustered not only by his appearance but also by the slight squeak in her voice. “Pray, tell me - where is the captain?”

The crew chuckle as Sandor remains silent, and the closer he draws near, the faster her heart beats, her mouth going dry and her palms sweating all at once. Her blue eyes involuntarily blaze a trail downward, drinking in the sight of his chest exposed by his barely tied tunic. Wetting her lips, her fingertips itch to scratch their way through the forest of dark hair covering his skin, a notion which has her pressing her thighs together. It is not until he is an arm’s length away that she comes back to herself, snapping out of the foggy haze of her burgeoning womanly desires.

“Did you not hear me?” she manages to ask, straining her neck to meet his gaze. “Where is the captain? What have you done to him?”

His burned lips lift at the corner. “Nothing he didn’t deserve.”

She is troubled by his terse reply, even more so by the sudden cheer from the crew, all giddy in their gaiety as they lift their bottles in toast to what Sandor just said. Peering over her shoulder at the rowdy sailors, her brows pinch from her confusion.

Nothing makes sense.

Nothing about today is making any sense.

“You still have not answered me,” she says, returning her attention to the huge man standing before her. 

“Is that all you ever do?”

Sansa blinks. “Is _what_ all I ever do?”

“Ask questions.” He snorts at his observation, which only serves to ramp up the men even further. “Chirp, chirp, chirp you go, like some little bird needing a cracker. A man can’t get a word in edgewise.”

Appalled by his insolence, Sansa opens her mouth to chastise him, but her rebuke vanishes the moment he steps into her personal space, his cavalier boot touching the toe of her slipper while he looms over her. His overt familiarity should infuriate her, but it doesn’t. Her ability to think sensibly has been overcome by the heady rush of his proximity. Everything about him reeks of danger and debauchery, and may the Lord have mercy on her soul, but she longs to experience both under his tutelage.

An empty bottle smashes on deck when it slips out of a sailor’s hand, and Sansa startles, coming back to herself.

_You are a lady – a lady betrothed to another whether you love him or not. Stop this at once!_

_“_ I demand to speak with Joffrey this very instant,” she says, lifting her chin and straightening her back.

Sandor smirks at her change of tactics. “That’d be impossible, I’m afraid.”

“And why, may I ask, is that?”

“Because he’s a bit tied up at the moment.”

Without warning, the entire crew erupts, their whoops and hollers billowing into the foggy morning sky. Some openly curse Joffrey’s name whilst others break into a jig, several seamen slapping their hands and hats in celebration. A sense of uneasiness slices through her, a sudden self-awareness shooting through her. Drawing her arms around herself, she shivers not from the crisp air swirling around her but from her growing grasp of her current situation.

“Here,” Sandor says, unexpectedly slipping out of his coat and draping it over her shoulders.

“Thank you,” she mumbles, caught off guard by his gentlemanly gesture. When his long fingers skim her collar bone right before they pull away, their eyes meet, and she is overcome with an urge to bury her nose against the soft, well-worn fabric, so heavy and warm unlike the rich silk lining, which is cool and soothing to her skin. 

“Forgive me for my haste in bringing you on deck this morning,” he continues, “but under the present circumstances, I deemed it necessary.”

“The circumstances . . .” Her eyes flit between his face and those of the crewman. “Wait . . . y _ou_ were the one who ordered me brought on deck this morning, not Joffrey?”

“Aye, that I did.”

Sansa stiffens, her stomach churning as the truth about what happened this morning slowly bubbles to the surface. “Forgive me, Mr. Clegane, but I do not understand. You may be second in command on board this ship, but ordering me, a lady as well as the captain’s betrothed, hauled about like some common criminal seems well above your rank.”

His lip twitches, his jaw clenching before he speaks. “It isn’t above my rank, I assure you.”

“But Joffrey - ”

“ – is no longer captain of the _Widow’s Wail_ , your ladyship.” 

Sansa’s eyes widen like full moons as the crew once again bellows in glee, and when Tormund approaches Sandor from behind, rum in hand, the lecherous leer on his face sets her nerves on edge.

“She sure is a beauty, ain’t she?” Tormund asks, whacking Sandor on the back. The older sailor waggles his bushy eyebrows at her before taking another gulp of the rich amber liquid. “Think ol’ Joff ever got ‘imself a taste of that?”

A growl rumbles deep within Sandor’s chest as he wheels around toward Tormund and the rest of the crew. “If any man dares touch Lady Sansa,” he roars, “they’ll be lucky if all they get is a hook for a hand. Savvy?”

Tormund howls in laughter, lifting his bottle in appreciation. “Aye, aye, cap’n!” 

“Aye, aye!” the crew joins in.

Sansa’s heart and mind are racing like a horse at full gallop. Like a veil were lifted, finally she understands everything - what had not made sense before has become very, _very_ clear.

“You’ve mutinied.” Her voice is a mere whisper, her mouth finding it hard to form the words.

Slowly Sandor turns around, a cocky grin plastered on his face. “Captain Clegane, at your service, ma’am,” he replies, dipping into a regal bow while the crew – _his_ crew – offer three cheers hooray. “Welcome aboard.”

The rose-tinted morning sky blurs, the stringy white clouds fading into darkness as she tumbles backward.

…ooo000ooo…

“Where am I?” Sansa asks, her heavy eyes parting as she tries to place her surroundings.

“In my quarters.”

Startled by the deep, rich voice she knows far too well, she pushes up on her elbows to find Sandor sitting at his work desk, scribbling away with his quill.

_Or Joffrey’s work desk, rather._

“What are you doing?” She lifts the blankets, gulping because she is clothed only in her nightshift. “Why am I here? Where is Joffrey? What have you done to me? To him?”

Ceasing his activity, Sandor collapses into this chair, inhaling and exhaling slowly before he speaks. “Bloody chirping . . . it’s enough to make a man wanna drown himself in the hogshead.” Tossing the quill into the ink well, he scoots his chair as he rises, the harsh sound of wood scraping wood filling the cabin. The low ceiling forces him to stoop as he approaches, his ridiculously tall form too much for the inside of the clipper. “So, tell me, your ladyship, which question would you like me to answer first?”

To her utter shock, he sits down at the foot of the bed where she lies. She quickly scrambles backward, unsure of his intentions.

“Easy, lass. If I’d wanted to take you, I’d have had you by now.”

Mortified, she jerks the covers all the way up to her nose. “And that is supposed to be reassuring?”

Sandor snorts in amusement. “I won’t hurt you, little bird. No man on this ship will either, lest he find himself hanging from the yardarm. I swear it on my dead mother’s soul. You are safe with me.”

She struggles to be angry with him, desperate to fear him, but she cannot. The soft, gentle smile he offers chases away whatever trepidation she possessed. A wave of calmness washes over her, releasing her anxiousness. Sandor has never hurt her, never once given her reason to doubt his word. She decides that she will trust him because really, how could she not?

During their voyage to Lannisport, he has been the only thing standing in between her and Joffrey’s sadistic streak. Sandor has been the only man brave enough to stand up to the hateful young captain when he publicly mocks or belittles her. He was the one who charged into her cabin in the dead of night, hauling a drunken Joffrey back to his quarters when he’d come to claim his rights before their marriage. And it was Sandor who dabbed her bloodied lip with his bandana the morning after when Joffrey ordered his vile first mate, Meryn, to backhand her in revenge.

Sansa lowers the covers, but only to her bosom. “If you truly have no intention of . . . of . . .”

While she fumbles to speak plainly, his one good eyebrow lifts in challenge.

Her lips purse. “You know what I mean.”

“Aye, I believe I do.”

Sansa sighs. “Well, then, if your intentions toward me are pure, why am I lying in _this_ bed and not in my own?”

“Right,” he says, chuckling at her observation. “You’re here because after you fainted, I wanted to make sure you were alright, so I brought you to my quarters where I could keep a watch over you until you woke.”

“And that really is all?” she asks hesitantly.

Sandor scoffs.

“Because I _was_ wearing my robe and - ”

“ – it got soggy from your swan dive onto the deck, so now it’s hanging over there to dry. Gendry helped me remove it before I tucked you in.”

When he points to the hook behind the cabin door, her eyes follow the path his finger makes, and sure enough, there her robe hangs.

“Satisfied?”

Sansa nods but does not speak, too busy digesting what has transpired. She has been lying unconscious for only God knows how long, vulnerable to whatever wickedness one of the men on board might wish to inflict upon her, yet instead of taking advantage of her or allowing it to happen at another’s hands, Sandor held vigil at his desk, ensuring no harm came to her. 

_He behaves more like a knight than a pirate._

“Now, which question should I answer next?” he asks, pulling her from her thoughts.

She gnaws her lip. “How long have I been unconscious?”

“That wasn’t one of your questions.” She rolls her eyes at him, which has him laughing even harder than before. “Only an hour or so. Not long.”

Fidgeting where she sits, she glances toward the work desk. “And what were you doing when I woke?”

“Charting our new course.”

Sansa is stunned. “Are we no longer headed for Lannisport?”

“Not anymore.”

“Why?”

Sandor lets go a heavy breath, and he looks away for the first time since sitting beside her. “I’m a pirate now, lass. Can’t be sailing into one of the king’s ports if I wish to stay on this side of the gibbet. And besides that, I still have to deal with Joffrey.”

Her mouth gapes. “He is still alive?”

“Aye. For now, at least.”

“What will become of him?”

“I’d wanted to throw him overboard like I did that Meryn Fucking Trant, but the crew, well, they weren’t really that keen on Joffrey meeting such a swift end.” He shrugs, his gray eyes meeting hers again. “So, I let them vote, and they chose a different punishment.”

She is afraid to ask but is too curious not to. “And what _is_ his punishment?”

“Marooning.”

“Oh.” Her eyes widen. “ _Oh._ ”

“We’re headed to a spot as we speak. We should be there before nightfall.”

Sansa blinks. “Are you _really_ just going to leave him there to die?”

“He’ll get a round for his pistol and a draught of water for his belly. ‘Tis better than he’d give any of us.”

Her nose wrinkles. She cannot imagine the agony Joffrey will endure once marooned on a desert island with no hope of rescue. “Isn’t there a more merciful way to levy your punishment?”

“Mercy?” Sandor barks out a laugh. “You’d show the bugger mercy after the way he’s treated you? After what you’ve seen him do to his own crew?” Rising to his feet, he stomps toward the large window overlooking the sea. He braces himself on the wooden frame, looking out over the deep blue water. “No, my lady, I’m afraid what you ask is impossible. Your betrothed won’t be seeing any mercy on this side of the grave.”

“And what will become of me, then?” she asks softly.

“Well, now, that all depends on you.” He glances her way then returns his gaze out the window.

“You mean, I have a choice?”

“You’ll always have a choice with me.”

She lowers her eyes to her lap, watching her fingers twist the blankets. “Does that mean you would take me home to Winterfell should I ask?”

“Aye, I would.”

“Even if it meant risking your life and the lives of your men should my father wish to see you all arrested?”

Sandor’s jaw tightens before he replies. “Lord Stark is a man of honor, unlike that cunt you were supposed to marry. I doubt your father would hang the man who brought his eldest daughter home safe and sound, no matter what flag he sails under.” He laughs then, but it is not one of joy. “Who knows? He might even give me a reward for returning you a maid so he can marry you off to the next wealthy fop who comes along.”

“You would do that . . . for me?”

“Aye, lass. I would.”

Staring at Sandor while he gazes upon the open waters, she falls silent a few moments, lost in thought. Never in her life has she possessed such agency. No one, not even her own parents, has allowed her such liberties before now. Sandor is willing to let _her_ decide her fate. For once, she holds the keys to her own destiny, and it is a glorious, wondrous feeling.

She is free.

She is free of Joffrey.

And she is free to choose whom she loves.

“I was supposed to marry Joffrey as soon as we arrived in Lannisport,” she says sluggishly, her mind still clouded by her sudden good fortune. “That was the arrangement made between King Robert and my father. Our marriage would unite our two houses, to seal a bond between our families.”

“Fuck Joffrey. Fuck the king,” Sandor mumbles under his breath, the malice dripping from his lips. “Fuck your arranged marriage.” 

Sansa bites her lip _._ “My thoughts exactly.”

Sandor’s long hair swirls in the air as he turns to look at her, his head spinning so fast, she is not sure how he isn’t dizzy. His gray eyes expand when she shucks the covers off her, slipping out of his bed and padding barefoot along the wooden floor toward him. With slow, deliberate steps, she lessens the distance between them.

“I never loved him,” she says as she approaches Sandor, relishing the way he stares into her eyes the whole time. “I loved the _idea_ of him when we first met, I admit, but over the course of this voyage, I quickly realized what kind of man I was about to marry. And may God forgive me, but I am not sorry that my wedding will be cancelled, no matter what means necessary.” As she crosses into the beam of light shining forth from the window, his eyes blow impossibly wide, and she is emboldened by the knowledge that the light has made the transparency of her shift quite obvious to the very, _very_ tall man gawking at her as if he has never seen a woman before now.

“What are you playing at, lass?” he asks when she halts directly in front of him. There is a warning hidden inside his question, a warning which sends a rumble of want rippling through her. 

“I am not playing at anything. Yet.” Resting her hands on his chest, she tugs her bottom lip with her teeth. He tenses under her touch, and she is encouraged to see how far he is willing to go. She takes her sweet time as she unties the laces of his tunic, and that familiar tingling sensation flitters within her woman’s place like it always does when she thinks wicked thoughts about him. This time, however, she will do more than just think.

“You shock me, Lady Sansa,” Sandor rasps, his voice raw and edgy as her small hands slide inside his shirt, unhurriedly exploring. His own hands find their way to her shoulders then up her neck and into her hair.

Licking her lips, she dives in with both feet. “I have not yet begun to shock you, _captain.”_

…ooo000ooo…

Startled from sleep, Sansa groans at the intrusion, rolling over onto her stomach while the pounding on her cabin’s door rattles it on its hinges.

“Lady Sansa,” Gendry calls out to her.

“Go away,” she replies, grabbing her pillow and inhaling deeply.

“The cap’n wishes to see ye right away.”

The pillow smells like leather and salt water, and she cannot contain her grin. “Right now?”

“This very minute, ma’am.”

Lifting the blankets, Sansa smiles at her unclothed form. _There is no way those marks will be fading any time soon. Such are the trials of being fair skinned, I suppose._

“Surely, you exaggerate his urgency to speak with me,” she calls out in return, hoping Gendry will give up and leave.

There is a brief pause before Gendry speaks again. “My apologizes, ma’am, but the cap’n was quite adamant ye come for him straight away.”

Sansa’s eyes crinkle at the true meaning hidden inside Sandor’s orders. Sandor is probably quite pleased with himself at present, most likely strutting about on deck, whistling one of those shanties he loves, envisioning her lying in his berth all sweaty and panting and moaning his name, spread wide for him while he demonstrates his skill at the Lord’s Kiss. What she wouldn’t give to be in such a state again. This is not the first time they have played such a game.

“Tell your captain that I fell into the sea,” she calls out while beginning a long, delicious stretch. “Tell him a krakken took me in the middle of night. Tell him whatever you want. Just go - ”

“Something took you in the middle of the night, alright,” the deep, raspy voice says outside her cabin, and before she can blink, the door bursts open. She laughs at the sudden invasion of her privacy, and as Sandor saunters into his cabin, telling Gendry to man the helm until he returns before shutting the door, she pushes the covers down to her waist to give him a better view.

“Don’t worry, your ladyship,” Sandor says, wetting his lips as he marches straight for her. “You don’t have anything I haven’t seen before now.”

Sansa’s thighs scrub together, desperate to ease her intense need to have him inside her again. “I could say the same thing, _captain._ ” She has memorized every muscle and sinew of his very, _very_ tall form these last few weeks at sea as they make their way to Winterfell, yet as his tunic hits the wooden floor, his huge hands deftly untying his breeches, the sight of his well-defined body, chiseled from years at sea, makes her mouth water just like it did the first time they made headway, or so Sandor likes to call it.

And she dares think it will not be the last.

**Author's Note:**

> "You long for freedom. You long to do what you want to do because you want it. To act on selfish impulse. You want to see what it's like. One day, you won't be able to resist." - Captain Jack Sparrow


End file.
